THE SILENT BALTIC
OR
DETAINED NEAR KIEL
BY MARCUS KNOX
AUTHOR OF “INFATUATION,” ETC., ETC., ETC.
PUBLISHED BY ACADEMY ARCHITECTURE, 44 DOUGHTY STREET, LONDON, W.C.
NOTE.
The Author begs to tender sincere thanks to the lady who supplied him with her experiences.
MARCUS KNOX.
DETAINED FOR SIX WEEKS IN A GERMAN TOWN.
We had long promised ourselves a holiday with our German friends in Holstein, and after a rather tiring journey we arrived there in the beginning of July, 1914.
The weather was glorious and brilliant sunshine ripened the corn in the fields round the little town of Neustadt, near Kiel. All was peace. Women worked indoors or in the gardens and men at their fishing nets or in their boats. In the evening they sat on wooden benches in front of their quaint red-roofed houses, the men smoking, the women preparing the vegetables for the following day. Everywhere reigned contentment and peace--peace--peace! The golden sunshine, the violet shadows, the ripening corn impressed themselves indelibly on my memory. How plainly I can still see it with my mind’s eye, such a picture of sweet quiet life, perhaps for years not to be witnessed again.
Then there came a change--like the rustle of some pestilential wind something swept over the tranquil scene--and that something was WAR. What did it mean? Destruction, ruin, poverty, separation and death!
Men who remembered the horrors of 1870 paled as they looked on their stalwart sons; young women wept to part from husbands and brothers, while little flaxen-haired children clung round their fathers’ knees. But the Fatherland called, and they knew nothing but obedience.
“Mein Kaiser ruft mich” (my emperor calls me), said one young man with ruddy complexion and bright blue eyes, as he clasped his wife to his breast. Then he took the infant from her arms and kissed it passionately. A wrinkled old woman held her trembling hands towards two youthful grandsons--mere boys--who were anticipating the glories of battle. They were all she had left, she had brought them up and without them her old age would be desolate. The poor woman who came to do the washing, actually rejoiced that the invalid condition of her husband would prevent his going to the front--afterwards she found he would be required after all, and many tears flowed over the wash tub. She was but one of thousands!
During the first days all was confusion and unrest. Nothing seemed real, and we hoped the news of serious war to be only a scare. The calm undisturbed tranquility of the Baltic seemed to deny the truth of these hostile reports.
People catch hold of news, or the rumour of news and instantly exaggerate. But as the long-drawn out hours crept on the rumour became fact and the command to mobilize a reality.
We were staying at the Pastorat (vicarage) and the young girl who came out with me had to return home on the 1st of August, via Hamburg to England.
Conjecture about her not being able to travel alarmed us. The railways were already crowded with anxious travellers--holiday makers whose holiday humour the vision of coming war had overshadowed, who were rushing to their homes; also with men who were already called to take their respective places as defenders of the Fatherland.
We were three friends--two English and one the Pastor’s wife. On the 31st of July we walked for the last time together on the sea shore and watched the gorgeous colours of the setting sun fade in the purple of the distance. The waters on which the town is situated are not the main sea, but a narrow, irregular bay that opens south-east into the Baltic--a splendid natural harbour close to Kiel. Surely, if war had really been declared, some of Germany’s great battleships would be stationed here! Could it be possible that what was said in England that we should drive them into the Kiel canal and bottle them up there on the first suspicion of hostilities, had already taken place? The coast is low-lying with small resorts for pleasure or industry dotted about. Here and there a windmill turned in the breeze, but not a single mast showed on the horizon. The path we were traversing winds round and round, sometimes through marsh land, and sometimes fenced in by hedges and trees; wild roses and honeysuckle bloom in great luxuriance and little steamers ply across to the neighbouring hamlets. At one part there is a ferry by which you can cross to a picturesquely situated “wirthshaus,” where you can have coffee or supper if desired. These frugal meals in the fresh air had always been a special delight of mine; but not often during my stay here this summer could I have this pleasure, for after the first few days all these places were closed. No one had any wish for anything of the kind, and soon even the ferry boat ceased to run.
On this evening of the 31st, however, some people were still able to joke and laugh and talk on many subjects. They could not yet realize the horror hanging over them.
We were sad at parting from our little friend. I intended staying some time longer, but she was due at home. There was some talk about our accompanying her as far as Hamburg, but perhaps there would be difficulty in getting back, and there was a baby in the house to think about.
Neustadt lies on a branch line, the main lines were sure to be overcrowded. Oh, why didn’t I decide to leave then with her and both get safe home together! But then we realized as little as the rest what the future had in store. Travel has been made so easy and we have been so spoiled by luxurious accommodations. It is utterly impossible for an English mind to conceive the entire disruption of ordinary traffic when an order for mobilizing a whole nation goes forth, not a mere army of a few thousands is under consideration, but the feeding and moving of millions.
In these early days I never dreamt that I should be practically imprisoned in that little out of the way town, cut off from all communication from the outside world. Let the reader try to imagine for himself the impossibility of any news of dear ones at home reaching him by any means whatsoever. In these modern times of every convenience let him picture to himself that suddenly all railways and means of transit had for him ceased to exist, then he may have a fair idea of what happened in every town in Germany and for all the English stranded there at the beginning of the war.
We decided to go together to Eutin, where our friend would have her first change, and to part there. All kinds of tales were fluttered about that we should not be able to get back. Kiel, situated at the eastern entrance of the Kaiser Wilhelm Canal, had emptied itself at the first breath of the possibility of war, and the authorities permitted nobody to enter the town without undergoing the most searching examination, as no doubt the fear of spies and bomb throwers was great in their minds, besides which mines were being laid around the harbour. Possibly they feared to disclose the fact that their ships were huddled up in the canal for two reasons; that their position would become known to the rest of the world, and they would also lose prestige amongst their own people. But Kiel was not in our route, and Eutin is not an important place, merely a railway junction.
We found our station only mildly crowded--no more than on any ordinary holiday, the train had not arrived and the officials were not sure whether it would come at all, however after a long time it did crawl into the station. For some reason or other all trains went at so slow a pace that one could almost walk along and talk to those inside.
At Eutin the crowds were dense. While waiting on the platform we saw some curious people alight from a motor. They were perhaps Russian spies coming from a reconnoitre of Kiel! We thought this later when we heard that so many had been taken. But our imaginations were on the alert to create sensations and unusual possibilities. The incoming train was fearfully overcrowded with passengers, and our friend found only standing room in a restaurant car. Unfortunately she could take none of her luggage in with her, and it had to be booked to Hamburg, where it was left, and we have since heard still is. The crowd there on that first of August was so dreadful that no one could trouble about luggage, and were glad to escape with their lives.
Our return journey to Neustadt was peaceful enough, but as evening advanced events became more pronounced, and there appeared no longer any doubt that we were on the eve of a European War such as the world had never seen before. All countries were being called to arms and much agitation filled all hearts. Everywhere men were being summoned away from wives and children and women stood about at street corners wringing their hands, but their grief was never loud or hysterical. Silent and heroic they faced their destiny. To think of having no choice in the matter. How contrary to our idea of liberty! In England, I repeat again, it is impossible to have any idea of what war really is, or what it means to those whose homes are threatened, and where the male members of every family must leave, in many cases, almost at a moment’s notice. It was wonderful to see how they came out of their houses fully equipped in faultless uniform, willing, without hesitation, to leave their all for their Kaiser and country. With stolid fortitude they obeyed the inevitable. It appeared to my overwrought imagination as if a soldier came out from every corner, from every house, and from every nook, in fact from everywhere, not singly, but in bunches.